Please have Snow and Mistletoe
by Melissa Alexander
Summary: After four years serving in the Marine Corps, Jon Snow is finally going home for Christmas. Home to the mess he'd left behind -and a woman he's been trying desperately to forget. But family has a way of helping you to see things with more clarity, and Christmas is a time for miracles, after all ... Jonsa Modern AU. Rated for language and some sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

**Please have Snow and Mistletoe**

 ** _I had to escape, the city was sticky and cruel. Maybe I should have called you first, but I was dying to get to you ..._**

"Rob?"Jon paced the bus station platform, tugging his iphone from his ear to periodically hold above his head, searching desperately for a better signal.

"Snow? Hello? Are you there, man?" Robb's voice came in and out, sounding like a skipping record.

"Yes." Jon cleared his throat, his free hand reaching to massage his temples as he stuffed himself into the small corner of the station where he was able to get one bar of reception. _Just barely_. "Yes, I'm here, Robb. Where are you?"

"Yeah ...about that. I'm gonna be a bit late. I had a slight detour. Mother sent me to pick up Arya and her boyfriend, and we're stuck in traffic. There must've been an accident up ahead or something."

Jon sighed. This trip was a mistake —he'd known from the moment he'd asked his Staff Sergeant for holiday leave. Knew it before that, even —when one by one the Stark siblings began blowing up his phone and insisting he come home for Christmas. _"You're still my brother," Robb had declared. "You were before, and you'll be long after."_

And who the fuck was he kidding, anyway? He missed them — _all of them_ , dearly. And the thought of spending another lonely holiday on base by himself, had Jon knocking on his commanding officer's door with the required paperwork before taking some time to think this all the way through. He'd never asked for leave —not once in the four years he'd been in the Corps. And although Master Sergeant Stannis had raised a quizzical brow, there were no uncomfortable questions as he stamped his approval, signed Jon's papers and sent him on his way. _Merry fucking Christmas, Corporal Snow._

"Jon, just hang tight, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can." Robb's voice blaring in his ear pulled him from his wandering thoughts, as Jon stepped outside and grimaced against the cold winds. So many years spent in the hot and humid south was making him soft.

"No," Jon shook his head, absentmindedly rubbing at his temples once more, and adjusting his duffle bag more securely on his shoulder. "I'll take a cab or something. See you there."

* * *

 **I was dreaming while I drove the long straight road ahead ...**

Jon shifted uncomfortably in the backseat of the yellow cab, as it made the left that took them to the outskirts of Winter Town. It had been such a long time since he'd seen this place, but somehow it managed to look exactly the same as the day he'd left. He supposed that was comforting in a way —the world moving on, but his home remaining unchanged. Honestly, he'd take comfort wherever he could find it ...

He leaned his head against the cold glass of the cab's window and watched the streetlights pass by in a blur. Would _she_ be there? She was family too, after all —so why wouldn't she be? Did she know he was coming? Did she mind? Jon supposed it was entirely too late to be worrying about these things as the cab hung a left onto Winterfell Lane. _But worry he did_ , as they finally pulled up in front of the Stark residence, and despite the soft intentional welcoming glow of the electric candles setting in every window, Jon felt anything _but_.

Shaking off his unease, he thanked the driver, slipping him his fare and a generous tip, nodding his head to the usual praise and the thanks he received for "serving" whenever he left base in any type of uniform. Stepping out of the car, Jon adjusted his cover and smoothed the imaginary wrinkles out of his dress blues, as he slung his duffel over his shoulder and kept his eyes straight ahead, making his way up the narrow shoveled path.

He paused only a moment, drawing a deep, calming breath into his lungs, before lifting his hand and rapping his knuckles against the front door. _Oohrah_. He was here ...half the battle had been won.

The door swung open, deflating Jon's lungs instantly, as he stared into the very face that had haunted his dreams every night for the last four years. The blue eyes that had once looked upon him with such warmth and love widened in surprised, but didn't regard him with cool indifference, as he'd expected.

 _So_ , there was _that_.

"Hello Sansa," Jon dipped his head, his gaze sweeping over her appreciatively, as he greeted her politely. She was even more lovely than he remembered, if that was possible —possessing the beauty that could bring a grown man to his knees. And he could attest to that personally.

"Jon," her voice was a breathy whisper that barely made it to his ears, as she glanced nervously behind her, then quickly stepped out onto the stoop and pulled the door closed behind her.

 **A/N: In the Corps, they wear "Covers", not "hats" -Also, please note that Rickon has been aged down in this fic.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**What in this world keeps us from tearing apart?**_

"You look goo— _well_ , you look _well_ , Jon," Sansa corrected herself, fumbling like an imbecile and unable to keep the shock from her voice, as her eyes drank in the sight before her.

Gone was the handsome gangly boy from her memories —now a man, he stood before her with an air of confidence that was as appealing as it was unsettling. But she'd gotten it right on the first note —he looked good, _damn_ good.

"And you are as radiant as ever," he smiled charmingly up at her from the lower step, evoking a warmth deep in her belly that spread straight to her cheeks. "Aren't you going to invite me in? It's rather cold out here, don't you think?"

"What are you doing here?" Sansa cringed even as the words tumbled from her lips, knowing how rude they sounded, despite that being the farthest from her intentions. She was shocked —that was all. She'd opened the door expecting to throw her arms around her little sister, and instead ...

"It's good to see you too, Sansa," there was no mistaking Jon's hurt, although he masked it with sarcasm. It rolled off his tongue with the biting cold of the wind whipping around them, and Sansa wrapped her arms around herself in a failing attempt to ward off the chill.

"I didn't mean it like—" the door swung open behind her, startling Sansa —she whirled around and lost her footing, her arms flailing as she stumbled off the stoop, and collided with the hard wall of Jon's chest. His warm hands encircled her waist —hauntingly _familiar_ , even as they were foreign, steadying her as she composed herself, and glared up at Theon who was chuckling from the doorway.

"Ever graceful, Sans," he teased her, his mouth twisted in a goofy grin as he shoved the door all the way open and beckoned them in from the cold.

Sansa led the way, stepping aside as the foster brothers embraced, emasculating each other with playful banter, as was customary. "So they made a man of you, eh Snow?" Theon barked, slapping Jon playfully on the back.

"Aye, and they might even be able to make one of you," Jon shot back, respectfully removing his cover, as her parents joined the fray. "Mr. and Mrs. Stark," he greeted them formally.

"Don't give us that Mr. and Mrs. horse shit," Ned Stark chastised, folding Jon in a bear hug, and ruffling his big meaty hand in what was left of Jon's military issued short hair.

"Come, lets have a look at you," Catelyn Stark said sternly, slapping her husband's hands away so she could plant a kiss on Jon's cheek, and Sansa couldn't help remembering a time her mother hadn't regarded him quite so fondly.

Time and circumstances certainly had a funny way of changing things ...and so Sansa tried not to be bitter as her family passed Jon around, Bran and even little Rickon clinging to him as if they were an extension of his crisp pressed uniform that he had the audacity of looking so good in. There wasn't much time for reflection anyway, as the front door burst open again, and Robb and his entourage tumbled into the foyer, laughing merrily as they shook the snow from themselves and the second round of hugs ensued.

"This is Gendry," Arya proudly introduced Jon to her long-time boyfriend, who wasn't a stranger to any of the Starks, as they'd been dating for almost two years now.

Sansa rolled her eyes as Jon shared a knowing look between both Robb and Theon, who nodded their approval, before he extended his hand to Arya's beau. _The three stooges were back in full force_ , so it seemed. A nudge from behind her, reminded Sansa she was being rude, as Joff cleared his throat rather loudly and drew everyone's eyes to them. But it was Jon's gray gaze that caught and held her, making her suddenly feel like a deer caught in headlights —wanting to flee, but her feet were stuck fast, as if she'd wandered into wet cement.

"This is Joffrey," Sansa swallowed, praying her voice wouldn't crack and betray her. "My boyfriend, Joffrey Lannister."

Had she imagined the twitch in Jon's lip as he reached for the hand Joffrey extended, and shook vigorously?

* * *

 _ **No matter where I go, I hear the beating of your heart ...**_

Sansa pushed her candied carrots around on her plate, as she nursed her second glass of red wine this evening. Despite her love of her mothers' homemade cooking, her appetite had escaped her, and Joff's grabby hand that kept inching its way up her thigh under the table, wasn't helping. Nor were the accusing looks Jon kept shooting at her under hooded lashes —as if he somehow _knew_ about it.

Of course he didn't, unless he had X-ray vision that she was unaware of. However, it didn't take super powers to see how Joffrey had inconsiderately planted himself in his chair, whilst even her little sister's 'rough-around-the-edges' boyfriend, pulled out hers. It had been Jon, who was already seated, that had gotten up from his chair and came to her rescue —and despite the kind gesture, it only served to embarrass her more.

Further frustrating was that no one seemed to notice the personal hell she'd somehow managed to step in —with both feet and no _goddamned_ shoes, as she brushed Joffrey's hand away for the umpteenth time, and suffered through another brooding glance from across the table.

 _Or so she'd thought ..._

"Sansa, you've barely touched your food," her mother chastised in that loving yet intrusive tone that parents had a knack for. "Candied carrots are your favorite, and I made them especially for you, love."

"Yeah, you've been especially twitchy tonight, Sans. Is there something wrong with your chair?" Arya asked, a smirk twisting at the corner of her mouth when Sansa shot her a wry look.

"Yes, than—"

"She's watching her weight," Joffrey cut her off, earning a disapproving look from both of her parents —but not that he'd noticed as he was too busy stuffing his _own_ face with food.

"Watching her weight?" Theon snorted. "Where's it going?"

"That's not true is it?" Catelyn persisted. "Sansa, you've absolutely no need to watch your weight."

Sansa's cheeks stained crimson, as she reached for her wine glass and drained it's contents. "No, mother. I'm not watching my—"

"Yes you are," Joffrey insisted, interrupting her once more, bits of food flying from his overstuffed mouth, as he waved his fork around. "That whole cleanse thing you're supposed to be doing with Myrcella. And you're gonna need it after gorging yourself on lemon cakes last night —especially if you intend on stuffing yourself into that snowsuit I bought you for our ski trip. It wasn't cheap, you know?"

Sansa blinked back her embarrassment, as Jon shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his grip on his fork tightening until his knuckles glared white at her from across the table. "It fits me just fine," she smiled sweetly, forcing her reply out through clenched teeth.

" _Soooo._.. you're going skiing?" Robb asked, thankfully shifting the conversation off the topic of her weight.

"Yes, my parents own a cabin up north of East Watch. We're meeting them tomorrow." Sansa cringed at the collective gasps that ensued from all around the table, as Joffrey made the announcement. Of course she had intended to tell them at some point, but she'd hoped to break the news to them herself.

"But tomorrow is Christmas," Bran protested.

"Yes, you can't leave on Christmas, Sansa," Rickon chimed in. "You'll miss our annual snowball battle. It's Stark tradition!"

"Well, I promise we won't leave until after the snowball fight," Sansa winked at her little brother.

"Well really that depends on the weather dear," Joffrey set his fork down and wiped his napkin across his face. "You shouldn't really make promises you can't keep. I'd like to get on the road as soon as possible. I've been waiting to hit the slopes all year."

"Perhaps we could move the snowball battle up then?" Ned suggested, ruffling the curls atop his youngest son's head —ever the voice of reason. "That way Sansa won't miss it."

"Yeah, it's _just_ tradition. No biggie," Robb snarked in typical Stark fashion, as Jon let his fork drop to his plate with a loud _clang_.

"More wine, Sansa?" Arya asked with a saccharine sweet smile, already tilting the bottle towards her empty glass.

"Yes, thank you," Sansa nodded politely, feeling like she was trapped in the fucking twilight zone, and this godforsaken dinner from hell would _never_ end.

Joffrey huffed beside her, placing his hand over the top of her wine glass, to block Arya from pouring. "She's had enough, haven't you darling?" Not bothering to wait for her reply, he picked up her goblet and moved it out of reach. "Seriously, watching my mother hasn't motivated you to practice a little self control, hmm?"

"I'm sorry," Jon growled, fixing Joffrey with a cold stare as he jerked in his seat, as if some unseen force was the only thing keeping him from lunging across the table. "Did I miss something? Is your name Sansa?"

Sansa cringed, as Joffrey rolled his eyes into the back of his head, preparing herself as best she could for the insult she knew was perched on the tip of his tongue that would only provoke Jon further.

"How about dessert?" Catelyn stood abruptly, slapping both hands on the table —an attempt to diffuse the toxic situation unfolding at her dinner table on Christmas Eve. "Sansa, Arya, will you give me a hand in the kitchen?"

Sansa released a shaky breath, grateful for the reprieve her mother had granted her —granted them all, really. The legs of her chair scraping against the hardwood floors, she pushed away from the table with gusto.

"Oh right, before I forget," It was Joff's hand that shot out and grabbed her wrist, effectively foiling her route of escape. As agitated as she was, Sansa would've slapped him if his next move hadn't robbed the breath from her lungs with a quickness that made her dizzy ...

Producing a heart shaped box from his pocket, Joffrey took a knee before her, as the dinning room collapsed into a deafening silence. "I think it's about time we get hitched lady, don't you?" He asked, flipping the box open to reveal the most expensive-looking diamond ring that she'd ever seen. "So what do you say about changing that last name of yours from Stark to Lannister?"

Sansa barely heard his proposal over the thudding of her heart beating a painful crescendo against her ribs. "I ...I ...uh ... "

"Well? Is it a yes or a _hell yes_ , babes?" Joffrey persisted, as she stood there gaping down at him, her tongue competing with her empty stomach in a knot tying contest.

"How romantic," It was Jon's voice that broke through the void — _damn him_ , "But you can't really marry a woman who's _already_ married, now can you?"

Sansa didn't want to look —tried not to, but her body betrayed her as Jon's eyes caught and held hers —blue and grey crashing into each other like waves in a stormy sea, as his lips curled into a sardonic grin. "Isn't that right, _Mrs. Snow_?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**I think about you When the night is cold and dark ...**_

"Awkward," Arya droned in the background, followed by her mothers' harsh _"shhhh"_ , as Sansa shifted uncomfortably under everyone's scrutiny.

"What?" Joffrey looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, still kneeling before Sansa with his arm outstretched, his diamond ring sparkling as it caught the light of the chandelier hanging overhead. Jon almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. _Almost._

"Dinner at the Stark house," Theon tipped his glass in a jovial toast, his goofy smile pulling wider as an amused look danced across his face. "This shit is better than the HBO line-up."

"Theon Greyjoy!" Catelyn scolded him, her hands immediately gravitating towards her hips.

"Apologies, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to be eloquent just yet," Theon set down his goblet and leaned forward in his chair, his palms pressed against the table in anticipation.

"Sansa _Snow_? You're already married?" Joffrey balked, rising to his full height and snapping the ring box shut with the flick of his wrist. "To _him_?" His tone incredulous, he raised an accusatory finger and pointed across the table to Jon.

Sansa nodded her head somberly.

"How the fuck could you keep that from me, Sansa? We've been dating for well over a year now!"

"This chicken is delicious," Robb cried enthusiastically. "Has anyone tasted this chicken?"

"It's turkey, you dolt," Arya rolled her eyes.

"Joff, I can explain. Can we ...can we just talk about this in private, please?" Sansa asked, attempting to calm him, she placed a trembling hand on his arm.

"Well you damn well better explain!" Joffrey shouted down at her, slapping her hand away, and waving that _same_ accusatory finger in her face. "You owe me that much, Sansa _who-ever-the-fuck-you-are_!"

 _Red_. That was all he saw, as Jon lunged across the room and grabbed Joffrey up by the collar of his preppy button down plaid shirt and slammed him up against the dinning room wall, his knuckles digging in against the pompous fools' adams apple while it bobbed convulsively in his fear. Jon's lips pulled back in a feral snarl as he watched the color drain from Joffrey's cowardly face. _He wasn't so big and bad now, was he?_ "Raise your voice at _my_ wife again, and I will kill you myself."

"Jon stop!" He heard Sansa's voice call out to him, but it was Ned's firm hands that pulled him off of the sniveling little coward that Jon had just watch belittle his wife for the last forty-five minutes.

"We settle our differences with words, not our fists son," Ned reminded him, gently squeezing his shoulder, and instantly Jon knew he that may have overreacted —though he regretted _nothing_.

"How dare you put your hands on me like that, you—you filthy dog!" Joffrey spat, massaging away Jon's handprint from his throat. "Do you have any idea _who_ I am? Who _my_ grandfather is? I'll have you demoted faster than you can—"

"Enough!" Catelyn's voice reverberated through the dinning room, effectively silencing everyone as they all turned their eyes to the commanding matriarch standing at the head of her table. "On my honor as a Stark, on my honor as a Tully, I swear if you all don't stop this nonsense right now, I will throw you out into the snow! It's Christmas Eve, for the Gods sakes! Have you no shame? Any of you?"

"I can personally attest to the fact that I have none," Theon proudly raised his hand, the smile fading from his lips as Catelyn's head snapped in his direction.

"Perhaps you'd like to be the first one out on his arse?" She narrowed her eyes dangerously, wagging her finger at him first, before circling it around the table at all her children, her heated stare following it. "And don't you think for one second that I don't know what you're all up to."

Her words flicking a light switch on in the back of his brain, Jon clenched his fists in anger, as all the Stark children — _and_ Theon, had the good sense to hang their heads once ousted. _Oh_ , Joffrey was an egotistical pompous ass — _that_ was indisputable, and while pummeling his face into minced meat would give him _great_ pleasure, Jon realized he had been dragged into their little game, and played like a Northern fool.

 _He needed some air_. Shoving past Joffrey, who had thrown a possessive arm over Sansa's shoulders —and all for _his_ benefit, Jon excused himself and headed for the back yard.

It was freezing outside, but Jon felt as if he was on fire, pacing the back porch, he swore he could melt the snow around him —he was _that_ damn angry. Why the fuck had he come here? _For this_? He could be back at the base drowning his misery in a bottle of Jack Daniels right now, but instead he was _here_ , having his failure as a husband thrown in his face by his wife's prospective fiancé. _Well, Merry fucking Christmas indeed, Corporal Snow._

Jon dug into his pocket for his iPhone. He couldn't stay here —not under the same roof as Sansa, knowing that another man would sleep with her curled in his arms tonight. Indefinitely, even. Another man touching _his_ wife. _No_. He'd have to stay at a hotel or something. Surely Robb or Theon could give him a ride? The Starks would understand ...

The back door clicked open, and for a moment Jon allowed himself to be hopeful that it was Sansa —that maybe she cared enough to seek him out ... But, wishful thinking _never_ did shit for him, as Arya joined him on the porch.

"Put your phone away Snow, you're not going anywhere." _She knew him so well_. "Isn't running away what got you into this whole mess in the first place?"

"Do you enjoy kicking a man when he's down, little sister?" Jon threw over his shoulder as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

"Actually, _yes_. Yes, I do." She answered honestly. "Especially if I love them and think they're about to make another terrible mistake."

"You're not exactly batting a thousand here," Jon tossed back, sarcastically.

Her feet crunched in the snow underfoot, as Arya moved closer to him. "I wanted to tell you about Joffrey, but Robb said you'd never—"

"Well, _somebody_ should have told me!" Jon swung around to face her.

"And would you have come then?" Arya shot back, stuffing her hands in her pockets to ward away the winter chill. " _Probably not_ ," She answered for him, as he cast his eyes downward in shame. "When you left, you didn't just leave Sansa ...you left _all_ of us too, Jon."

Jon's heart clenched painfully in his chest as he turned soulful eyes back up at the little girl that he couldn't have loved more if she was his sister by blood —except, she wasn't a little girl anymore. "Arya, I ..." But what could he say? She was right. In erecting a wall to protect himself, he'd left them _all_ on the other side. "It's just ..." Jon turned his face into the wind, as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. "It just got too hard."

"Look, I didn't _really_ come out here to give you advice ... in fact, I'm probably the worst person to do that," Arya snorted, as if she was privy to her own little inside joke. "But only an idiot would give up on something they wanted because it got too hard. And you're not an idiot, Jon. Thick headed and broody as hell maybe, but _not_ an idiot."

Her small, familiar hand clasped him on the shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. "You know, we _could_ just kill him," she suggested nonchalantly with a shrug.

Jon threw his arm around his little sisters' shoulder and laughed, despite himself. "You're right, you _are_ the worst person to get advice from."

* * *

N _ **o one can move me the way that you do, Nothing erases this feeling between me and you ...**_

He rolled to the left, then back to the right, punched his pillow twice, and kicked the blankets off himself —yet no matter what he did, Jon could _not_ seem to get comfortable. For someone who had slept on much worse things than the plush sofa in the Stark's den, he was becoming increasingly frustrated. He'd slept on dirt and rocks in the rain, with sadistic Drill Instructors shooting blank rounds at him, for fucks sake —and yet, _here he was_ , wide awake when the entire household was sleeping peacefully.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Jon tossed his blanket aside, his dog tags clanging together against his bare chest, as he pulled himself up from the couch. Perhaps some warm milk might help calm him? But as he crept quietly up the basement stairs, he knew he was headed for the liquor cabinet in the living room, instead. It was shameful, he knew it. But it had been a long time since he'd used alcohol as a crutch, so Jon gave himself a pass.

He could see the glare of the Christmas tree lights from the other room, so he let the colorful glow guide his way, and opted not to disturb anyone by turning on the overhead lights. Rounding the marble island in the kitchen, Jon turned the corner and — _oomph_ — collided with a wall of warm flesh.

A soft squeal split the silence, as Jon's hands shot out blindly, fumbling in the darkness, he caught his would-be victim with lightening-fast reflexes, and pulled them up against the solid wall of his chest. _Sansa_. The familiar smell of her perfume wafted up into his nostrils, but he'd know her even if the Gods robbed him of all his senses. She was a part of him. Always had been. Always would be.

She gasped as her palms pressed against his naked skin. "Jon," she breathed his name, as if she _too_ knew him by touch alone.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his hands still resting on the soft swell of her hips when he knew damn well they shouldn't be.

"I'm fine. You startled me, is all." She did not immediately remove her hands from his body, _either_. Instead, she slid her thumb sideways over the jagged scar resting just above his heart. He could just barely make out the outline of her features in the darkened room, but Jon didn't have to see her face to know her brow was furrowed in concern. "What is this?"

"Caught some shrapnel from an IED on my first tour in Astapor," Jon shrugged. "No big deal."

"It certainly doesn't _feel_ like no big deal," She continued her exploration of his battle scar, tracing her finger along its puckered edges. "You might have been killed."

He didn't tell her that he _had_ almost lost his life that day. That if not for the sheer stubbornness of one of his brothers in arms and the refusal to leave him behind, he might have bled out like so many of their fallen comrades, _and left her a widow_. Perhaps that would have been easier for both of them. "Believe me when I tell you that I was one of the lucky ones."

"You might have told me _when_ it happened," Her tone was stern as she suddenly took a cautious step backwards, disengaging herself from his grasp, as if just now realizing that they'd been locked in a casual embrace.

Jon let his hands fall to his sides, clenching his fists to keep himself from reaching out and dragging her back into his arms. What good would it have done to tell her? He didn't want his wife's charity —he wanted her love. "Why are you slinking around down here in the dark?"

"Why are you?" Sansa sounded defensive.

Jon brushed past her and headed towards the living room, giving her no other choice but to follow after him if she wanted her answer. "I couldn't sleep. Came up for a drink."

"You're going the wrong way then," Sansa replied. "The kitchen is back that way."

"Not _that_ kind of drink," Jon stopped before the serving cart beside the Christmas tree and helped himself to a glass of Ned's top shelf brandy. " _Ahhh_ ," he released a ragged breath as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat and settled into his belly.

The second and third gulps went down easier, and before Jon knew it, he was pouring himself another glass, while Sansa stood by watching with a disapproving look. Even her face pinched in disappointment was pleasant to look upon —the lights from the Christmas tree shining behind her caught the highlights in her glorious red hair, turning it to silken strands of living flame as she tossed it over her shoulder. If anything, the years had only added to her beauty.

"Jon ...do you really think you ought to be drinking at this hour?"

Jon slammed his glass down on the tray and uncapped the decanter to pour himself another refill. "Yes, go on, sound like that Gods awful boyfriend of yours." Lifting the glass to his lips, he paused, "Wait ...isn't it fiancé now? I suppose you'll be wanting a divorce post haste?"

She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "Must you be cruel?"

"Right, I'm the one being cruel!" Jon threw back the glass and drained its contents. "And you're completely blameless, I suppose? Oh yes, well of course you are. Poor, poor Sansa," Jon mocked her, "Is your pretty new ring too heavy for your finger, love?"

"Fuck you, Jon." She hurled back at him with the force of a blow to the stomach. "You can't possibly think I knew he was planning on doing that? That I would ever hurt you intentionally— "

"As you've already hurt me intentionally, Sansa?" He shot back, hating how weak and pathetic he sounded, tossing out accusations, while she stood there with the reserved strength that could move mountains. It was one of the things he'd always loved about her, though.

"We hurt each other, as I remember it," Sansa hugged her stomach as the words spilled quietly from her lips, the venomous tone gone from her voice, now. "The only difference is that I don't blame you. We were kids, Jon. Stupid, impulsive kids. We were too young for the responsibility we tried to take on. It was a mistake, but should we hold that against each other for the rest of our lives?"

"See, that's where we've always diverged Sansa," Jon ran a shaky hand through his hair, and took a step towards her. "Running off —eloping like that over a pregnancy test we hadn't bothered to confirm — _sure_ , that _was_ stupid of us, but my feelings for you were always genuine and nothing I'd ever refer to as a _mistake._ "

She flinched at that. _Good_. Let her hurt as he had for four fucking heart wrenching, miserable years.

"You were the one that left," she reminded him.

"No," Jon shook his head. "I may have been the one that walked away, but _you_ were the one that left, Sansa. You checked out on our relationship long before I ever walked out that door."

Despite getting in his digs, Jon only felt more lousy at the pain clearly etched on her lovely face, as she regarded him with solemn blue eyes. Were those tears brimming in their depths, or was he just imagining that?

Setting his empty glass down on the tray, Jon brushed past her, knowing this argument was futile. Their marriage was over —had been for a long time now, and she was moving on —it was about damn time he do the fucking same.

"Jon," her voice called him back, freezing him in his tracks. And though he _hated_ not having the strength to deny her —to fight the hold she _still_ had on him, he turned, propping himself against the living room archway in silent defeat.

Sansa moved to stand beside him, leaning on the opposite side of the doorframe. "Do you still love me, Jon?"

Jon pushed a shaky hand through his hair. "Why are you asking me this Sansa?"

"Because I want to know."

"Why? It doesn't change anything. You will marry your stuffy fiancé and I'll go back to base, and maybe we'll see each other five years— "

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight, interrupting Jon as the chime of its bells echoed through the otherwise silent house. Sansa's eyes were fixated above his head, and curiously, he craned his neck to see what had captured her attention.

They were standing under the mistletoe.

Sansa took a brave step forward as the clock struck its final chime, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Jon," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins that suddenly gave him the courage he needed, or maybe he just could no longer contain the feelings he'd been stuffing down over the years. Whatever the reason, this outcome seemed inevitable —and if she'd be gone from his life forever, Jon wanted this one last respite from the madness that consumed him for so long.

Sansa didn't protest as his arms wrapped around her waist, and pulled her flush against him. Only a breathy sigh escaped her lips as Jon inched his mouth closer to hers —slowly, _deliberately_ , giving her every opportunity to stop him if she didn't want this just as much as he did.

Their breath mingled as he dipped lower, nudging his top lip against the the fullness of her bottom one —the slightest of brushes, teasing a response out of her. He wanted to be gentle —to savor this moment, yet, the feel of her soft pliant body pressed so intimately against him set Jon's blood to fire, as an inferno seemed to erupt deep within him. _Too long_. It had been too long since he held his beautiful wife and tasted her sweet kisses.

And then Sansa's arms wove up around his neck, her soft body melting into him, as their lips locked, parted and locked again. Her mouth fell open, her little tongue darting out to coil suggestively around his own —and _that_ was Jon's undoing. For all his strength, whatever was left of his self control faded out into oblivion, as he completely came apart at the seams —rending in her hands like a flimsy piece of cloth.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Could taste your sweet kisses, your arms open wide. This fever for you is just burning me up inside ...**_

Sansa was dizzy, her head spinning —spiraling out of control, as Jon's kiss went from gentle to urgent to searing, his lips unleashing sensations and feelings she'd long ago thought dead and buried. But she'd been _wrong_ —perhaps it was just that _no man_ could make her come alive as Jon Snow did.

Sweet Jon, passionate Jon — _her husband_ , Jon.

As he continued to devour her mouth, Jon backed her up against the doorframe, his hands sliding from her hips to her ass, as he scooped her up into his strong arms. There was no hesitation, as Sansa shamelessly wrapped her legs around his waist, her breath catching as she felt his urgent need for her pressing hot and hard against the vee of her thighs, where she found herself burning for him.

Her fingernails raked his skin, digging crescent moons in the naked flesh of his shoulders, as Jon tore his mouth from hers to drag his lips down the gentle slope of her neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin of her throat. "Sansa," his hot breath sent ripples of pleasure skirting through her, "my sweet Sansa, how I've missed you, so."

His words sent her soaring, even as they tore at her gentle heart. Miss her, yes ... _but did he still love her_? It was hard to think straight with his hands and mouth all over her, driving her to a frenzied fever pitch. And she wanted him — _Gods, she wanted him_ , but impulsivity had been their undoing before, and it had taken years to repair the damage to her heart when he'd left. There were no doubts in her mind, Sansa _knew_ she could not survive that pain again ...

"Stop," she whimpered against his heated skin where she'd been muffling her cries of pleasure in the hollow of his shoulder. "Jon stop, we mustn't ...not like this."

The speed in which he released her was staggering, and Sansa clutched at the doorframe just to keep herself from toppling to the floor. Jon's chest was heaving, his face contorted in pain, as he took several steps backwards, putting plenty of distance between them.

"I won't ever touch you again," his words were not a threat, nor spoken in spite —but a solemn vow that cut to her core like the sharp edge of a blade, and Sansa knew that he _meant_ them. And then he was gone, his silhouette fading into the darkness from which they'd collided in earlier.

Her hands tightening into little fists, Sansa fought the urge to pound the wall and weep in frustration. She even considered going after Jon, but instead curled up on the loveseat by the Christmas tree, trying to convince herself that Joffrey was what she wanted, and that accepting his proposal was the right thing to do. But every time she closed her eyes and pictured growing old with someone, it was Jon's face that she saw.

Sansa didn't even remember falling asleep, but the next thing she knew, it was morning, and she was still on the loveseat —her hair plastered to her face, and her neck twisted at an odd angle. The smell of bacon frying — _or rather_ , bacon burning, filled her nostrils, prompting her to investigate, as she dragged herself up from the couch and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

"You have to flip it now or the chocolate will completely melt, you idiot," It was Arya's voice that carried to her ears, as Sansa approached the kitchen.

"Gods, you are viper! I've had Drill Instructors nicer than you. You know, I pity that poor Gendry fellow."

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks, her heart beating wildly against her breast — _Jon was in the kitchen, too_.

"Blah blah blah, flip the damn pancake, Snow!" Arya shot back, popping a chocolate chip in her mouth, as Sansa rounded the corner. "Mornin' Sans, you look like shit."

"Merry Christmas to you too," Sansa flung back dryly, avoiding Jon's eyes as she headed straight to the coffee maker, and poured herself a mug. "I had trouble falling asleep last night."

Whatever reply Arya was getting ready to dish out was _thankfully_ interrupted by Theon stumbling into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in six different directions and bags under his eyes. "Gods, I am _never_ drinking again."

"Wow, you look worse than Sansa," Arya greeted him.

"Arya, really?" Sansa sputtered through her mouthful of coffee, wondering if she really looked _that_ bad. "You _are_ a viper."

Arya only smiled, popping another chocolate chip in her mouth, while Theon shuffled the same path straight to the coffee maker, as Sansa had. It was only a matter of time before the entire kitchen was filled with the Stark children, all making a constructive effort at Christmas breakfast, with Sansa taking over the pancakes after Jon had burnt the first batch nearly as bad as he'd burnt the bacon.

The kitchen was a disaster by the time her parents meandered downstairs, her mother's jaw dropping straight to the floor at the plethora of dirty pots and pans littering her marble countertops. Her father only smiled, dragging his wife under the mistletoe hanging over the living room archway and kissed her soundly while Rickon and Bran made gagging sounds in the background —Theon and Robb 'maturely' egging them on.

 _The same mistletoe and the same archway_ ... Sansa shook the thought from her head as she laid a plate before Joffrey and sat down in the empty chair beside him.

"Where were you last night?" He asked her, wrinkling his nose as he picked up a piece of Jon's burnt to a crisp bacon.

"I ..uh.." Sansa balked, as to her abject horror, everyone's eyes flew to Jon!

"She bunked with me and Rickon last night for some quality bro sis time," Bran offered, without missing a beat.

"She did?" Rickon asked, looking confused with a mouth stuffed full of chocolate chip pancakes.

Sansa sunk deeper into her seat, terrified to look at Jon and wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Thankfully, Joff didn't press the matter, and soon the topic shifted to what activities everyone wanted to do over the next few days of holiday vacation.

Relaxing a bit, and knowing she was forever indebted to her little brother for his quick thinking, Sansa nibbled her burnt bacon, unsure of whether or not she should be grateful that she no longer needed to avoid Jon's gaze, because apparently he'd taken to pretending she didn't exist this morning. On the other side of the spectrum was Joffrey, pretending as if her _entire_ family didn't exist, while his fingers attacked the keyboard of his laptop at the breakfast table.

Sansa rolled her eyes. Apparently even Christmas Day didn't warrant taking a day off from acquisitions and mergers — _unless_ you were hitting the ski slopes, of course.

When breakfast was over and the kitchen cleaned, they moved to the living room and exchanged gifts, as was customary. Rickon was immediately ready to head outside for their annual snow battle the minute he'd torn all his presents open, reminding everyone that it was Sansa's fault that they all had to brave the cold this early in the morning.

"Thanks Sansa," Robb groaned, rolling up off the loveseat, as Joffrey's phone went off and he excused himself to go take the call in the other room, returning almost immediately.

"That was mother. Apparently Myrcella has to catch an early flight out, so she's moving dinner up. We need to get on the road ASAP."

"Already? But we haven't even— "

"Sansa, you promised!" Rickon protested loudly, finishing for her as he burst back into the room, already dressed head to toe in winter gear.

Sansa felt like she was standing before the firing squad, drowning in a sea of accusatory stares — _including_ Jon, who chose that moment to remember she existed.

"Rickon, I'm really sorry, but we promised to visit with Joffrey's family too," Sansa attempted to ruffle her little brother's curls, like her father always did —which he evaded by dodging her hand. "Come on, don't be that way. We can have a snowball battle any time."

"It won't be the same," he insisted, attempting to cross his arms defiantly over the puffy layers he'd encased himself in. "This is a Christmas snowball battle, and Christmas is today."

"Sansa sucks at snowball battles anyway," Theon chimed in —always happy to add to the discord.

"Rickon don't pout," Ned scolded his youngest boy. "Sansa and Joffrey have made a commitment to his parents, and what do I always tell you about how important it is to keep your word?"

Rickon sighed, then recited the words father had engrained in all of them. "Words have to mean something or there are no more answers, and only better and better lies."

"That's right. And now since you are already bundled up, you can help your sister and her guest load their belongings into the car."

"Yes father," Rickon nodded.

As Sansa headed upstairs to get dressed, she knew that her father's words were meant just as much for her as they were for Rickon.

* * *

 _ **I drove all night, to get to you. Is that alright?**_

Her heart heavy, Sansa fastened her seatbelt and gave her family a final wave, as Joffrey backed her SUV out of the driveway, and they began the long drive to East Watch. Jon had not been present when she'd said her goodbyes, and as much as it tore at her heart, she understood why. The two of them had shared enough painful goodbyes to last a lifetime, after all.

Sansa watched the scenery pass by in a blur, as she stared out the passenger window. It began snowing shortly after they'd turned onto the Kings Road, slowing up their pace a bit, as Joffrey navigated the slippery terrain ahead of them. The view was breathtaking —the falling snow covering the land like a sparkling fluffy blanket, clinging to the branches of the spruce trees that reached high above for the heavens, some nearly as tall as the mountains in the distance.

Three hours into their trip, they stopped off at the Mole Town Inn and grabbed a quick bite to eat, with Joff rushing her out the door before she'd even had a chance to finish her meal —insistent upon keeping to their tight schedule. "You might have worn something a bit nicer," He criticized her appearance with a pinched frown as he climbed back into the SUV —not bothering to open the passenger side door for her.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Sansa asked, looking down at the form fitting brown sweater dress and knee-high suede boots she'd selected for their trip, as she climbed up into her truck, slamming the door behind her. Sure, she didn't look as if she was about to attend a royal ball, but they were headed to a ski lodge for the Gods sakes!

"Just thought you'd want to present a better image than _that_ when we announce our engagement to my family." Digging into his jacket pocket, he dropped the ring box in her lap, then started the car. "Put that on." He demanded, turning the SUV back onto the main road.

Sansa glanced down at the ring box resting on her thighs, "That's rather presumptuous of you, don't you think? I don't recall saying yes."

"Don't be coy," He shot back. "You know you would have if not for that rabid husband of yours snarling throughout our entire meal. Can you believe he actually had the nerve to put his filthy fucking hands on me?" Joffrey let out a maniacal laugh. "He's lucky my parents raised me a gentleman, otherwise I would of wiped the floor with him."

Sansa snorted, wondering what he considered ungentlemanly if he believed his behavior last night to be 'gentle', as Joffrey droned on. "When we get home, I'll have Baelish draw up the necessary papers to start divorce proceedings. Let's not tell my parents about your previous lapse in judgement though, okay? You know my mother isn't terribly fond of you to begin with, and if she knows you're essentially used goods, she'll have a harder time accepting you."

Biting back the sharp retort perched on the tip of her tongue, Sansa watched him from the peripheral of her vision, wondering what in the hell she'd ever seen in the pompous ass sitting beside her? He was nice to look at, _sure_. He was _also_ rude, condescending, egotistical, controlling ... Had she ever truly loved him? _Hell_ , she wasn't even sure she _liked_ him.

They rode the next two hours in complete silence —except for Joffrey announcing that they'd need to stop for fuel soon. Sansa reached for the stereo dial, twisting the knob and submerged herself in the scenery once more, as the soothing sounds of Ramin Dwajadi's 'Winter Has Come' filled the SUV —its melancholy beauty reminding her of home and all she'd left behind ... _mostly reminding her of Jon_.

Sweet and gentle, honorable Jon.

 _I am his, and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days ..._

Her heart grew suddenly heavy, constricting painfully as it beat rapidly within her breast, and Sansa realized that they were one in the same ... home and Jon, Jon and home —Jon _was_ her home. Wherever he was —that was where she belonged, and wherein her heart would _always_ lie. _She loved him still._

And if she was being truthful with herself —something Sansa had not done in a very long time ... she had _never_ stopped loving him. _Gods, how could she have been so stupid?_

"Ugh, how can you listen to this garbage?" Joffrey scoffed, reaching for the stereo dial.

"Don't touch it!" Sansa snarled at him —shocking herself as much as him, as he quickly withdrew his hand and returned it to the steering wheel.

"Sansa, are you getting your moons blood?" He asked moments later, as he pulled into the gas station, and stopped the SUV before one of the fuel pumps. "Why don't you go inside and get some chocolate, or whatever the hell cures your craziness this time of the month?" He suggested, tossing some money at her as he crawled out of the SUV and began refueling the vehicle.

Sansa took a deep breath and removed her seatbelt, following Joffrey out of the truck. Inhaling the crisp winter air, she took a moment to stretch her legs —preparing herself for the long drive she had ahead of her, before moving to the back of her SUV and lifting the hatch. _Her mind was made up._

"Babe, what are you doing?" Joffrey asked, as Sansa hefted his bags out of the back of her truck and tossed them onto the pavement beside him.

"I'm going home," Sansa declared, slamming the tailgate closed, and tossing his money back at him. It hit his expensive tailored coat and bounced to the ground.

Joffrey quickly replaced the gas nozzle, "You're joking— "

"Goodbye Joffrey," Sansa cut him off, as she hopped into the drivers seat and slammed her door, hitting the lock button before starting the SUV back up.

"Sansa! Sansa wait!" Joffrey pounded on the glass of the passenger side window, his face contorting in anger, as he fumbled with the locked door handle. "You can't just leave me here! _Dammit_ , Sansa! Sansa!"

Throwing the SUV in gear, Sansa stepped on the gas peddle and began pulling away, as her eyes caught something in the center console, and she promptly hit the brakes. The truck screeched to a halt, and Joffrey immediately came running, abandoning his bags by the gas pumps, as Sansa rolled down the passenger side window.

"You've come to your senses then?"

"I most certainly have," Sansa plucked the ring box from the center console and tossed it out the window to him. "Merry Christmas, Joff."

Romping the gas peddle once more, she turned her SUV towards home, and prayed to the Gods — _all seven of them_ , that she wasn't too late ...


	5. Chapter 5

**I drove all night, crept in your room, woke you from your sleep, to make love to you ... Is that alright? I drove all night ...**

 _Sansa_. He dreamt of her almost every night. Visions of fiery red hair spilling down over her shoulders, soft ivory skin and long willowy limbs that wrapped around him. She came to him willingly, her arms open and reassuring, her lips sweet with whispers of long forgotten promises. Some dreams were so vivid that Jon swore he could almost feel the heat of her body, taste the saltiness of her skin. _Almost._

In his dreams she still loved him.

"Jon?" The sweet melody of her voice warmed him like a blanket, darkness shrouding her beauty from his eyes, but he knew the delicate planes of her face by heart.

"Sansa," he breathed her name into the space between them, his hands pushing into the curtain of her glorious hair, smoothing the silken strands between his fingers, as he drew her face down for his kiss.

Gently, he brushed his lips against the fullness of her mouth, cradling the back of her neck, as he slipped his tongue between her lips to leisurely drink of their intoxicating sweetness. There was no need to rush ...dreams offered him that luxury.

Her soft sighs and moans tumbled into his mouth, a heady elixir of passion that addled his brain, as Jon drew her down onto his body. His hands slid down the slope of her back to pull her closer against his throbbing need for her —surprised to find her clothed. _That was a first_. No matter, undressing her was a pleasurable task he found that he _also_ missed. She sighed as his hands bunched up the hem of her dress, gliding up the backs of her smooth thighs, to knead the soft flesh of her ass. A flick of his wrists sent her hips colliding with his —a delicious prelude of what was to come. He ached for her, his cock straining urgently against the fabric of his pajama bottoms, demanding release.

Sansa tore her lips from his to cry out, then instantly clamped her hand over her mouth, and Jon chuckled. She could bring down the house with her cries of passion —no one would hear her in the veiled sanctuary of his dreams. His hands continued their exploration of her silken skin, tracing the gentle curve of her spine, and unhooking her bra with skillful fingers. Like riding a bike —some things you never forgot, no matter how much time had passed.

Easing her back up into a sitting position, Jon pushed her dress up over her head, tossing it to the floor as she assisted him in slipping the rest of the way out of her bra, his hands instantly cupping the soft swells of her breasts. Sansa arched her back, pressing them deeper into his palms, a shiver passing through her as he flicked his thumbs over the taut peaks of her nipples. _Gods, she was beautiful._

Sansa's hands were gentle, as she traced the contours of his naked chest, lingering momentarily over the scar above his heart. In a show of infinite tenderness, she dipped her head and pressed a kiss to the puckered flesh, eliciting a moan from Jon that came straight from the depths of his soul. _Please don't let me wake_ , he prayed to the Gods —both old and new. _Let me stay with her here, where her love still burns for me._

Jon knew it was a futile plea. He'd wake alone, as usual —her absence continuing to tear away at his broken heart until there was nothing left of it, leaving him but a shell of the man he once was. But he'd hear it from her now, where he had the power to shape his fate ... Tangling his fingers into her hair, Jon captured her lips in searing kiss —demanding her love, her loyalty. _I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days ..._

"Say it," he whispered against her lips, resenting the bitterness he heard in his own voice. "Tell me you love me, Sansa."

A droplet of water hit his cheek, then another. They ran down his face and pooled in the hollow of his throat, where he could _feel_ them, warm and wet against his skin.

"I do," Sansa's voice was thick, laced with pain and regret. "I love you still, Jon."

He raised his hand to cup her cheek, swiping at the tears falling from her eyes with his thumb. _Wet_. Perplexed, Jon sat up, reaching blindly in the darkness for the lamp he knew sat on the end table by the couch, and twisted the knob, bathing the room in soft light, and causing them both to squint.

Sansa raised her hand up over her face to shield her eyes from the abrupt brightness, perched half naked in his lap like a broken doll, she tucked her other arm protectively over her breasts, as if casting away the darkness had suddenly made her self conscious. But she was here. She was real. _This was no dream._

"Sansa—" Jon fumbled with his words, the air of confidence he exuded in his dreams abandoning him, as his brain grasped to convey what he was feeling. "But you —you left with your fiancé—" He rubbed a shaky hand vigorously over his eyes to make sure he was in fact, awake.

She cringed at his words, shrinking in his lap, as if she might disappear within herself. "He is not my fiancé. I never accepted his proposal, and as you've reminded us all, I'm still a married woman."

Another tear fell from her eye and slid down her cheek, and Jon reached again to gently swipe it away. "But do you still wish to be, my sweet Sansa? A married woman?"

She leaned into his palm, her hand sliding up his arm to grasp the hand he cradled her face in, as a deep shudder wracked her body. "If my husband will have me."

"From this day until the end of my days," Jon murmured, pulling her into his arms and kissing away her tears, as she folded herself around him.

"Say it Jon," her lips moved against his. "I need to hear it, too ..."

Jon drew himself back so that he could look into her eyes —the two pools of blue wherein he'd drowned more times than he could remember. "I love you Sansa Snow, my beautiful wife."

Their lips came back together urgently, impatient hands fumbling against their remaining clothing, as Jon laid Sansa gently down on the sofa beneath him, and nestled himself between her warm thighs. The feel of her naked skin pressed against him was surreal after so long — _so many dreams_. He worshipped her body with his hands, then his lips, sliding over every inch of her soft heated skin. His memory was long, but it had paled in comparison to the real thing.

 _His wife. His love. His Sansa._

"I don't have protection— " _Gods,_ he hated himself so much right now —as Sansa hooked her leg up over his hip and drew him closer— but it was a necessary consideration. Four long years of separation, and they had a lot of pieces to fit back together ... Even if he wasn't sure he could stop himself now —it was not his decision to make alone, and he was helpless to stop the prick of fear that pierced at his heart —that they were treading in the same dangerous waters that had torn them asunder to begin with.

"Oh, do shut up," Sansa murmured against his throat, nipping lightly at the skin. "It's not as if we'll have to run off and marry secretly."

"Be serious," Jon tried to protest, even as Sansa's smooth fingers curled around his heated flesh and guided him inside of her —and all that came out were barely audible sounds as his body shuddered in response.

Sansa moaned, her head falling back, her red hair spilling around her as Jon pushed fully within her. The sensation of being with her again —joined as one, was as emotional as physical, and Jon had to hold himself back, lest the feeling overwhelm him, and he spill his seed immediately.

Slowly —exquisitely, achingly slow, Jon withdrew to the tip, then eased back in —the intense pleasure bordering on pain, as Sansa's muscles clenched around him, driving him damn near to madness. She bucked her hips against him, urging him on, and Jon was lost to the moment —driving into her with all he had ...he could love her all damn night if he so chose, they had a lifetime now, after all.

Sansa wrapped her arms around him, her hands pushing up into his hair, her legs curling around his thighs —molding him to her body, as if she couldn't get close enough. "I love you," she whispered against his lips, his jaw, the sensitive skin behind his ear —over and over, a litany of love, until her body tensed and she peaked, and then it was his name on her lips instead. "Jon ..." a breathy sigh.

Jon shook, his body trembling with intensity as his release came right on the heels of Sansa's, and he groaned her name into the hollow of her throat, then collapsed upon her, his bones reduced to mush. "I love you, too."

* * *

 **One year later ...**

 _"A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new glorious morn" ~ Oh Holy Night_

Jon ducked, just barely missing the snowball that sailed over the top of his head and hit Theon square in the chest. They were in the midst of the Stark Family Snow Battle, and almost thirty minutes in, the Starks were dropping like flies —the fallen taking refuge on the back deck with steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

"Dammit," Theon cursed under his breath, flopping into the snow like a wounded walrus, as Jon dodged behind the nearest tree.

"Sneak up on me, will you? Serves you right, Greyjoy!" Jon bent to scoop up a fresh handful of snow, packing it into a tidy ball as he scanned the yard for enemy forces. Rickon was hiding behind the woodshed —his mop of red curls against the white backdrop had given him away almost instantly, but Jon had a bigger target in mind. Just where was that other bothersome ginger hiding?

"Looking for me?" Robb jumped down from the branch above Jon's head, letting his snowball fly just a second too early, and Jon managed to side-step it.

"I was actually," Jon taunted, reaching to smash his snowball on Robb's head, but he spun away and tackled him into the snow.

"Get them!" Arya screamed, leading the ambush, Rickon and Bran right on her heels, bombarding Jon and Robb with their arsenal of snowballs.

"Cheaters!" Robb cried, shielding his head from the enemy fire. "You're not supposed to team up!"

Catelyn emerged from the house with a fresh batch of hot chocolate, scolding Sansa as she grabbed another handful of mini marshmallows and stuffed them in her mouth.

"Hey moose, save some for the wounded!" Theon yelled, finally dragging himself up out of the snow and stumbling towards the porch.

Sansa chucked her remaining marshmallows at him, as Jon dragged himself out from under the dog-pile of his siblings. "Watch your mouth," he growled in a mostly teasing tone. _Mostly._

Ned reached for a steaming mug and kissed his eldest daughter on the forehead. "Pay him no mind love, you are as lovely as ever. Eat as many marshmallows as you want. Eat the whole damn bag."

Catelyn laid the tray on the picnic table, as everyone swarmed in and grabbed a mug, getting warm before round two of the snow battle ensued. Jon accepted the mug Sansa offered, sliding his other hand around her waist, his arm not quite able to reach around her swollen pregnant belly —and noted that she had already consumed all the marshmallows before sharing.

"So when do you think you'll break ground, Jon?" Ned asked, wiping off his marshmallow mustache and making Jon envious.

With his fifth year in the Corps coming up, Jon was now officially Reserves, which meant that while still having to travel south once a month for drills, he and Sansa could move back north and finally settle in. Using the comfortable salary he'd squirreled away over the years, they'd purchased a plot of land just a few doors down, where their dream home was going to be built from the ground up —and by Sansa's design. Soon they would be nestled comfortably on Winterfell Lane, permanently. In the meantime, Ned and Cat had generously opened their home to them.

"Mid March, if the contractors can be trusted."

"You mean if your mother doesn't obstruct them in a desperate bid to keep you under our roof as long as she can?" Ned chuckled affably, tapping his wife under the chin when she shot him an accusatory look —as if he'd just outed her big game plan.

"We don't want to impose," Sansa smoothed her hands over her belly, wincing uncomfortably.

"Don't be ridiculous," Catelyn waved off her comment as if it was absurd. "You will stay with us as long as you—Sansa, are you alright?"

Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes. "You are hovering again, Mother. I'm fine," she smoothed her hands over belly again. "The baby is just restless today, is all."

"Probably because it's all geeked out on marshmallows and lemon cak— _oomph_ — " Theon grunted as Arya's elbow connected with his gut.

Jon reached to massage Sansa's lower back —a maneuver he knew to be successful in easing her discomfort. "Are you cold my love? Would you like to go inside for a bit?" Truthfully, Jon was impatient to whisk her away and be alone for awhile —eager to peel off all her warm layers of clothing and feast his eyes upon her glorious curves.

As Sansa's appetite grew over the months, so did his own —finding himself undeniably drawn to the delightful way her belly grew more round, and her breasts more full, as their child grew within her. She'd never been more desirable —motherhood most definitely suited her.

"I'm fine," she knew _exactly_ what he intended, as she side-eyed him coyly, pressing her spine back into his knuckles as she sought relief from whatever odd position their child had taken up at the moment —playing kickball with her organs —usually her bladder.

Rickon scarfed down his hot chocolate as if it were nothing more than cup of cold milk, eager for round two, he leapt off the deck. "Come on slow pokes!"

"Looking to get beat down already?" Robb jumped over the railing and captured his little brother in a headlock, ruffling his curls as Rickon windmilled his arms around, unable to connect his little fists with his insufferable older brother.

Bran joined in the fray, hopping up onto Robb's back and dragging him down into the fluffy snow. "Beat down? We pulverized you!"

"Because you are cheaters!" Robb protested, as Rickon scurried loose and adjusted his hat.

"Smarter you mean," Arya handed her shared mug back over to Gendry. Poor lovesick fool had been her very first victim in the first round of the battle —finding out quickly that her love knew no loyalty, and Arya definitely subscribed to the theory that all was fair in love and war.

Robb and Theon had been right about him. Gendry was an okay guy, and Arya wasn't afraid to be who she was around him —no false pretense, no pretending. Jon sensed that his and Sansa's baby might have a new cousin to play with sooner, rather than later, as the pair planned to tie the knot in the upcoming spring.

"Your father and I are sitting this round out," Catelyn announced, slipping into Ned's embrace. "Our old bones don't fare so well in this cold."

"Speak for yourself woman," Ned pecked her wind-kissed cheek and dove off the deck after his sons. "We are of the north! Come, my children, winter is here!"

Sansa turned her face for Jon's kiss, her blue eyes alight with joy, as their lips brushed softly. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, husband."

"Careful she doesn't eat you, Jon!" Theon called, scrambling off the deck before Arya could get her hands on him. "If she tastes any trace of marshmallow on you, you're done for!"

"Theon Greyjoy!" Catelyn admonished him, while Robb wrapped him in a bear hug to hold him still.

"Free shot, Sans!"

Jon bent and scooped up a wad of snow, packing it into a tight little ball, and handed it to Sansa. She wasn't able to run as fast as the rest of them, but his little wifey had an arm on her, for sure.

Sansa stepped forward and wound her arm, aiming directly for Theon — _and froze_ , the snowball still clutched in her hand. "Ohhh," her mouth forming and holding the word, as shock registered across her lovely features.

"Sansa?" Her name was a cadence carrying throughout the snowy yard, as everyone stared at her expectantly.

"Oh my Gods, she's leaking! Sansa, you're leaking!" Theon cried, pointing to the puddle forming at her booted feet that was melting away the snow.

"It's her water, her water has broke," Catelyn confirmed, immediately issuing orders as she pried the snowball from her daughter's iron-fisted grip. "Nobody panic," — _as everybody panicked_ — "Robb, go start the truck. Arya, go get Sansa clean pants. Bran, go to the spare room and grab the hospital bag. Theon, a blanket from the linen closet. Ned, lock up. Jon—"

Jon was vaguely aware of his mother-in-law's voice ringing in his ears, as he stared open-mouthed at Sansa.

"Jon! Close your mouth dear, all is well," Catelyn's hand closed around his chin and pushed his jaw shut. "Come, help me get Sansa to the car."

Sansa's warm hand on his cheek brought Jon back into focus. Quickly, he bent and hefted her up into his arms, following Catelyn and Ned around to the front of the house.

"Are you ready to meet your son?" Sansa asked, wincing at the fluttering of her first contraction.

"Very much," Jon couldn't refrain from kissing her again and again, as he carefully set her into the backseat of Ned's Suburban and climbed in beside her, as the rest of the family piled in, too.

Ned threw the giant hulking SUV in reverse and began pulling out of the driveway, as Rickon came tearing around the side of the house, waving his arms in the air furiously. "Wait! Wait for me!"

Catelyn, clutched at her heart dramatically, as Ned stomped on the brakes. " _My Gods_ Ned, we forgot our poor son!"

Rickon scrambled across the yard and climbed into the Suburban, scooting to the very back and flopped into the seat. A frown pinching his lips, he folded his arms across his chest and heaved an indignant little huff.

"Rickon love," Catelyn turned to address him from the front seat, as Ned set off towards the Winter Town hospital. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean to forget you."

"That's not why I'm mad," Rickon pouted. "I'm mad because Sansa ruined the snow battle again!"

The SUV erupted in laughter, as Ned turned off Winterfell Lane.

 **"And will I tell you that they lived**

 **happily ever after?** **I will not, for no**

 **one ever does. But there was happiness.**

 **And they did live" — Stephen King**


End file.
